


Best Served Cold

by Beguile



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Avocado at Law, Foggy Nelson is a BAMF, Language, Rematch, Revenge, Some Legal Stuff, Violence, fight, trap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 14:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4308186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy gets his revenge.  Sequel to a chapter of Just in Case (Stick Comes Back).  One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Served Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> This was originally going to be my Stick meets Foggy fic, but it was hurt/comforty enough for me. As a result, this is a short fic to follow a chapter of Just In Case called “…Stick Comes Back”. I think that one might be necessary reading before this. 
> 
> Readers, you wonderful people, you. Thank you so much for your wonderful support. Hope you’re all having a good week!

* * *

 

Best Served Cold

 

            The kid’s apartment is quiet and empty, so Stick lets himself in to wait.  Whatever’s keeping him won’t take long.  On his way through the neighbourhood, Stick only catches wind of an aggravated assault, a few domestics, and a robbery.  He’s more surprised to not cross the devil’s path on such a quiet night actually.  Rooftops are more entertaining than what little crime the city has to offer tonight. 

             A rank odour of domestic bliss greets Stick the second he steps inside from the rooftop.  Breakfast, cleaning supplies, laundry detergent – all those desperate little luxuries Matt pads his life with to Be Normal, live an illusion, forget how brutal the world really is.  Stick considers ending it one and for all.  Toss a match on those silk sheets the kid loves so damn much.  About the only thing stopping him is knowing fire won’t solve anything; Matt’s not the type to give in just because someone pushes him real hard.  Stick taught him that much at least.

            Besides, when he gets down the stairs, Stick picks up on more familiar scents.  Must from the floorboards and furniture can’t hide the copper taste of old blood on his tongue.  It’s accompanied by the tang of bandages and antiseptic; the spice of Tiger Balm; that cool, thin scent body armour leaves behind.  Proof that under the thick veneer of daily life, a warrior still lives in his apartment.  Maybe a cleansing fire wouldn’t be such a bad idea.  Might clarify the kid’s priorities, remind him that creature comforts are a coward’s excuse for an existence. 

            Speaking of…Stick paces the apartment, wondering where Matt would hide his little going-away present from their penultimate tiff.  The kid’s apartment has a double life all its own, loads of nooks and crannies to bury things.  A swath of captured air in the wall catches his ear.  Stick moves towards it, the hollowness calling to him.  A poor little crawlspace to match poor Matty’s broken heart.  Stick runs his hand over the break in the wall, creating a tap, tap, tap of crawlspace doors.  This is the beating heart of Matt’s home.  Small puffs of air emerge from within smelling of the boxing ring.  Sweat, silk, and blood.  The only pieces of Daddy that Matty Murdock has left. 

            He breaks the lock and throws open the cupboard.  Kicks the trunk with his toe.  The echo gives the space dimension, lets him know Matt’s not hiding anything else.  Stick lifts the lid and isn’t at all surprised to find BATTLIN’ JACK under his fingertips.  More silk, dyed a shade of red so bright Stick can taste it.  He pushes it aside and digs more deeply into Matt’s treasure trove, stopping only when he comes across the horns of Matt’s mask. 

            Which is still in the apartment.

            Stick lifts his hands from the devil’s face at the bottom of the trunk.  “I’ll be God damned,” he muses, rising slowly to his full height.   He foregoes his stick for his katana in this case.  Matt’s absence in the apartment, the dissipating scents of blood and bandages, the fact that he’s not out on patrol: he’s in recovery.  And since Stick would have heard about the Devil needing hospitalization before coming to town, his absence has to be part of a set-up. 

            His ears start ringing suddenly in confirmation.  Tracing the source of the frequency is difficult.  Matt has a surround sound system hooked up.  Speakers in every corner of his tiny apartment like he built his own personal hellhole.  Yes, indeed, this is a trap if there ever was one, and the list of potential hunters is one person long.  “What was your name again?” he asks the heartbeat that’s just arrived at the top of the stairs.  “Fog-”

            Whatever he says next is obliterated by a supernova of noise.  Stick has to drop his weapon to grab his ears.  The sound is a solid fucking object, and then it’s a living, breathing thing, and then it’s a million tiny blades spearing him through every pore on his body straight to the bone.  His curses only add to the paroxysm, which chews him up and spits him out and then starts chewing him up again. 

            He wills himself to focus on his other senses, to let the noise flow through him, as he makes his way towards the body heat at the bottom of the stairs.  Muscle memory only gets him so far though.  Seems like the screeching electric guitars and booming bass line set off his inner ear.  He catches the chair with his leg and nearly topples over. 

             “GOD DAMN IT,” he curses.

            A fist flies out of nowhere, catching him across the face and knocking him upright again.  He thinks he’s told to “watch your language,” but Stick’s rage has joined the din, blocking out whatever was left of the world.  He throws a hand out in the direction of the punch and catches nothing but air.

            He feels a brush of wind, nothing more, when Foggy’s next attack comes: a second blow, straight to the face, this one made of aerosol spray.  Cologne.  It slams against his skin and sets off a hydrogen bomb over his sinuses.  His mouth tastes like chemical boil, like everything’s being reduced to its basic molecular parts and rolling out of him like soup.  Stick vomits.  Hopes he hits the fucker when he does it too.  Is pretty sure he doesn’t when a fist slams against his spine, knocking him to the floor. 

            No amount of focus helps Stick wade through the next moments of life.  His head is encased in sound and smell, and just when he thinks he finds a way out, the bastard's fists are on him again.  He tries to catch it out of the air, but Foggy is wise to his tricks.  Either that or Stick suspects he’s not moving too quickly.  The blows keep coming – to his shoulders, his legs, his arms, his back – and they send shockwaves through his perceptions of temperature.  He doesn’t have a sense left to track, only to feel, and he’s not prepared for how hard it is to own the pain he should have seen coming.

            From his yuppie former student’s best friend no less.  Guy who spit blood in his face like a maniac.  A fucking man-child with a score to settle got the best of him.  Stick’s growl gets cut off by some knuckles being jabbed against his kidney.  He finally goes still against the floor.

            The music might have stopped playing over the speakers, but it rings on endlessly in Stick’s ears.  Same with the chemicals burning in his nostrils.  Still, he has to know, “You set this up?  How the hell did you figure this out?”

            “You’re not as smart as you think you are,” Foggy chides him.

            Stick retches some more.  Coughs up a big mouthful of phlegm.  “Or maybe you’re just luckier than you think you are.”  
  
            “Luck would be stumbling into Matt’s apartment with a baseball bat, Axe body spray, and Dragonforce the same night as you by sheer coincidence,” Foggy kicks him on the leg.  “I tracked you, starting at St. Agnes, to different orphanages worldwide.  I know your aliases, your contacts, some of your allies.  I even know the names of some of your blind soldiers, Stick.” 

            He’s bluffing.  He has to be bluffing, and yet Stick can hear the shithead’s heartrate through the haze.  It’s thundering, steady, honest.  Apparently, law school is good for something.  There just might be a brain in that thick skull.

            Stick gets kicked on his side, effectively knocking the wind out of him.  Pain blots out the rest of his senses completely.  Stick lies in true blindness for the first time in decades.  He laughs.  Has to laugh.  He knows exactly how he sounds and looks, “You have no idea who you’re dealing with right now.”  
  
            “Yeah, actually, I do.  You can go ahead and laugh.  I know you, Stick.  And best of all,” he keeps moving, the bastard, slipping in and out of Stick’s perception, “because I have spent so many years getting on Matt’s nerves, I know all your weaknesses.”

            A foot hooks under his broken ribs.  Fireworks go off inside his head like it’s the Fourth of Fucking July.  He’s rolled to his back.  When he tries to kick Foggy, Stick takes a blow to the stomach. 

            Still, he laughs.  He’s not going to let the shit have an ounce of satisfaction in winning.  “This is the most fun I’ve had in years,” he spits out a mouthful of blood and snot and leftover vomit.  All of it tastes like aerosol cologne.  “Is this the best that you can do?”

            He feels a whistle in the wind of an incoming object and loosens up in anticipation of a blow.  Instead, Stick’s struck square in the chest with a heavy manila envelope.  He grabs it with one hand.  Throws it where he thinks Foggy’s standing.  Misses.  “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t see too well.  Mind telling me what the hell that is?”  
  
            There’s almost no warning.  Shit, the whole world is out of sync.  Ears ringing, face melting, body broken: Stick ends up with the folder pelted against his chest again.  This time, he leaves it there.

            “It’s printed it braille,” Foggy growls.  “Stick, consider your ass served.”

            “What the…?”

            “You are being sued on behalf of one Matthew Murdock for emotional and physical pain and suffering.”

            Stick is grateful for the ringing in his ears.  He’s not sure he wants to hear this correctly.  “Are you shitting me?”

            He gets one last punch across the face as a reward.  The floorboards crack a little when they collide with his head.  “We’ll see your ass in court,” Foggy declares, walking away. 

            Stick groans: blind, dead, and nauseated.  Beaten down by an asshole lawyer and not even sure if he can get back up again.  He feels the tremors in the floor of Foggy victory marching out of the apartment.  Stick can’t let him go that easily, “You realize I’m coming after you, right, Shithead?”

            “I said we’ll see your ass in court, Stick!”

            But his victory march speeds up.  Straight out the apartment door. 

            Stick shakes his head, “Asshole…” 

            The door opens one last time, “DUMBASS.”

            Then Foggy actually runs away. 

 

* * *

 

Happy reading!


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